


half and half

by maliksmilkshake



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Blowjobs, Kidfic, M/M, Some angst
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-15
Updated: 2015-04-15
Packaged: 2018-03-22 14:35:57
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,520
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3732526
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/maliksmilkshake/pseuds/maliksmilkshake
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Zayn and Harry are two completely different types of parents. </p><p>for the prompt: "Zayn and Harry have different views on the best way to raise their kid."</p>
            </blockquote>





	half and half

**Author's Note:**

  * For [](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts).



> This was written to fulfill the prompt: "Zayn and Harry have different views on the best way to raise their kid." It stemmed from that and got into some interesting family issues, but I hope you like it, all the same! 
> 
> Thanks to S, for holding my hand, and J, for beta-ing, and everyone else who helped me brainstorm this fic. You're all groovy.

Zayn and Harry are two completely different types of parents. In hindsight, this was probably something they could’ve deduced for themselves, as Zayn and Harry are two completely different types of people, but neither of them had thought about it much before Isla came into their lives. Or, neither of them had thought about it too indepthly, focusing on the legalities and technicalities that came with adopting a child. It was easier now, they were told repeatedly, by lawyers and workers and even a family member or two, but there was still a lot of paperwork, a lot of meetings, and a lot to stress about. Zayn and Harry fell in love with Isla easily, but they were so focused on just trying to get her home, to get her to be Isla Styles-Malik instead of just Isla, that neither of them gave much thought to the actually raising of a child. 

Zayn grew up in a strict household and was more regimented on rules. Mostly, he was scared shitless of mucking things up. He read parenting book after parenting book, hunched over his laptop reading mummy-blogger threads and every decision made in regards to Isla was calculated and well-researched, from cloth vs disposable diaper to what type of formula to easing into socialization. He was anxious, so he prepared himself and was well-informed. 

Harry was lax. He was a natural with children, felt at ease because of exposure around cousins and neighborhood kids, and he had a gut instinct, he thought. He did what felt right, grabbed the brand that had the best packaging, made and did things spontaneously. He always had Isla’s best interests at heart, but Zayn was trying to turn parenting into a science and Harry thought it was all much more inherent than that. It was funny that, the scientist following his heart and the artist following the books, but it’s who they were. Zayn was methodical, Harry followed whimsy and instinct. 

Logically, Zayn figured, if he read enough about it all, he wouldn’t mess up too badly. He could figure it out. 

Logically, Harry figured, he loved Iz too much to ever do anything to fuck it up. 

They disagreed a lot, but they balanced each other out, in the end. With a loft and a daughter and a cat and a husband he loved more than anything else in the world, Harry felt like he’d truly figured out what his life was supposed to be about. Maybe this was it, he found himself thinking. The universe was big and he could study it all he wanted, get his head up in the clouds, but this was what grounded him back down to Earth. His family was what made it all okay. Maybe it wasn’t the meaning of life for everyone, but to him, this happiness was it.

Except it wasn’t always that easy, the actual logistics of running a family and raising a child, and sometimes Harry let the little things dig at him. Because he loved his job, had worked his ass off to actually do something in the astrophysics department of a university, but he loved his family more, and sometimes he felt like he was missing all of the important things. They’d worked out the scheduling ages ago, but for all of Harry’s insistence that this - this live he was living was exactly happiness - he still sometimes felt a little off. 

And maybe he let that dig and manifest more than was healthy, but it was fine, he thought. They’d figure it out eventually, he reasoned, when the time was right.

—

Zayn is running late for picking Isla up from daycare. He’d gotten caught up in a conversation at the gallery, glancing at his watch at five after three and panicking, because it was at least a fifteen minute drive across town, sometimes longer when the traffic was thick, and Isla freaked out when he was too late. It wasn’t that she hated play school - she had friends and Harry was always negotiating playdates on the weekends with a few of the other parents and her caregivers never had a bad word to say about her behavior - but Zayn knew she got antsy away from them too long. They were a family of routine and Isla knew hers. Zayn hated messing that up.

He was already thinking of ways to ease the burn of his tardiness - maybe ice cream after dinner, maybe two stories for bedtime, maybe a snuggle in between he and Harry in the big bed - when he made it through the door, apologetic smile on his lips. 

“Hi, Claudia,” Zayn grins at the girl at the front desk, resting his elbows across the counter. “How was she today?” 

Claudia looks up at him, momentarily dazed in the way that a lot of people get but Zayn no longer notices, and grins just as widely back. “Angelic, as per. Did Harry forget something?”

Zayn’s looking down at the sign out sheet when she says this, pen already in hand as he looks for Isla Styles-Malik on the chart, but when he gets to her slot, there’s already a familiar signature signing her out. “What? Harry was here?” 

Now Claudia is looking up at him, confused. “We’re gonna miss little Iz,” Claudia says instead of answering Zayn’s question. “Little Miss Helper, that one.” 

“Miss her?” Zayn repeats, and then he looks back down at the sheet. Harry signed his name along with ’12:14’, meaning that it’s been at least 3 hours since they’ve both been out, and Zayn swipes his phone out of his pocket, presses the center button and watches as his background flashes - a photo of Harry and Iz, wide eyed and big cheeked with finger paint spotted everywhere on their faces - and nope, the only text he’s got is one from Doniya complaining about a problem from work. “Harry picked Iz up?” 

“Yes? When he came by to submit the termination of care paperwork? Damn shame it’s gonna be, not seeing your handsome faces every day to pick up Iz, but we’ll just have to survive.” 

Caludia is mostly teasing, but also looking up at Zayn with confusion at his ignorance, and it only takes a few more moments for things to click in. 

Termination of care paperwork. Missing Iz. Missing their faces. 

He’s still confused, embarrassment now flushing his cheeks at the look Claudia gives him, like he doesn’t have any idea what’s going on in his own family, but quickly Zayn is nodding and smiling and already thinking of the fastest route he’s going to take to get home.

—-

Harry and Iz are asleep on the couch when Zayn gets in. The entire drive over, Zayn had been working himself into a frenzy - maybe there’d been a family emergency, maybe something had happened with Iz, maybe - worst case scenario, something that lingered even if he never fully believed - Harry was leaving him. There had to be something wrong, Zayn decided, for Harry to withdraw Iz from play school and not tell him.

Zayn took the stairs up to the flat two at a time, hands dancing nervously against the railing as he carried himself upstairs, and by the time he made it to the third floor of their building he was bursting through the unlocked door almost a little frantically. 

Harry and Iz are asleep on the couch. They wear identical expressions when they sleep, mouths hanging open, drool collecting at the corners, heads twisted to the side. It’s a pile of unruly curls - Iz’s springy and tightly coiled, Harry’s more relaxed and piecey from the product he puts in it - and legs and arms, Izzy plopped down in the middle of Harry’s chest. Their breaths rise and fall in sync. 

Zayn feels some of the panic drop out of him. They’re here, in the flat. If they can nap, surely nothing is dire, no one died. It doesn’t explain any of his questions, but suddenly things feel less urgent. 

Zayn’s dropping his bag on the dining room table, slipping his shoes off and heading towards the kettle when Harry wakes up.There’s stirring from the couch, a displeased groan presumably from the crick in Harry’s neck from being pushed up on the sofa, and then a gentle, “Hey, baby.” 

Zayn glances over at Harry as he fills up the kettle in the sink. “Hey.” Zayn replies, voice stilted. His eyes glance to Isla, still knocked out on Harry’s chest. 

It takes Harry several more seconds to wake up, but there’s a noticeable shift in his breathing when he fully gets there, glancing at the clock and his phone on the coffee table - _Is everything ok??_ and _H why didn’t you tell me you were picking Iz up from daycare??_ and _Did something happen Harry I’m worried text me back_ all sitting on his screen from Zayn. 

“Shit,” Harry curses under his breath. “I meant to text you.” 

Zayn says nothing as he puts the kettle back on the heating plate, switches it on, and grabs two mugs out of the cupboard. He’s normally not a tea drinker, preferring the kick of coffee in the morning, but he has a feeling he may need something calming. 

“We fell asleep on accident.” Harry says. “We went to the park and ran around and your daughter is exhausting, you know. Rambunctious. Barely made it onto the couch to sleep, was so knackered.” 

“I went to pick Iz up at three. Claudia says she’s going to miss us.” 

Zayn keeps his back to Harry, plucking two teabags out of the container and dropping them in the mug. “Harry,” Zayn starts. “Why is Claudia going to miss us?” 

Harry inhales sharply again, maybe at the unnerving stillness in Zayn’s voice, maybe from the way his daughter shifted and elbowed him in a kidney. He shuffles Isla off of him gently, laying her down on one of the sofa squares and covering her with the fluffy throw blanket. Zayn’s hands are gripping the counter when Harry crosses the few feet to the loft’s kitchen.

“I meant to text you.” Harry says again. He raises a hand tentatively towards Zayn’s elbow, but Zayn isn’t receptive. The kettle boils. 

“Did you take Iz out of daycare?” Zayn flips the switch pours the steaming water into the two mugs. 

“I—“ Harry starts, stops, inhales. Takes another step closer to Zayn’s back, even though Zayn is wielding a boiling tea kettle and his shoulders are taught, a plane tense enough to string a bow through. “—yes. Yeah.” He swallows. “I did.” 

“Today?” Zayn puts the kettle back on the plate, unplugs it from the wall. He stares down at the mugs, watching as the tea bag steeps and the water darkens, the brewing muddiness suddenly matching his mood. 

“Do you want milk?” Harry asks, unable to stand still. He doesn’t wait for an answer and crosses to their fridge anyway, pulling out the skim for Zayn and the half cream for himself. 

“You pulled Iz out today?” Zayn repeats, finally turning and pressing his back against the counter edge. Harry meets his eyes, but only briefly. 

Finally, he nods. “Termination paperwork is surprisingly easy. We’re out of the money we paid for the rest of the month, but there wasn’t a withdrawal fee or anything.” 

“You pulled Iz out of daycare and you didn’t think to talk to me about it?” Zayn asks, and he tries not to sound too accusatory, too irritated, but most of it bleeds through because after the relief of nothing being wrong, now he’s just pissed. Pissed at looking foolish in front of Claudia, pissed at the potentially coronary the past forty-five minutes had given him, pissed at Harry suddenly making decisions about their family and their daughter without his input. 

“I didn’t want to bother you at work.” Harry’s excuse is feeble, even to himself. 

“You always bother me at work.” From silly text messages to email chains to Snapchats of a particularly fat squirrel, Harry was always sending Zayn things, work hours be damned. 

“It was a split second decision.” Harry pours the milk into the tea, focuses on the swirl as it lightens to his preferred milky brown, and tries not to wince at the agitation of Zayn’s tone. “I was gonna talk to you about it, but I was there, and it was honestly only a few pieces of paper to sign.” 

Zayn can feel the flush rising on his neck. “Just because it only took a few minutes to do doesn’t mean you should have done it. I don’t-- why were you even there? Don’t you have a class at noon?” 

Technically, Harry teaches a class at 11:50 - or taught a class at 11:50 - but in all of his frantic decisions, he set his TA up with the lecture slides, sent an email to his department chair, and decided to keep all of the technicalities for later. “I cancelled it.” 

“I don’t understand.” Zayn says, just as Harry’s poured the skim milk into the other tea mug and turns to put everything else away. “Did something happen at the daycare? Is that why you pulled Iz out? Is she okay?” 

Harry shakes his head quickly. “No, nothing happened, daycare is great, Iz is fine. I love Claudia.” 

“Then what happened?” Zayn demands. “Where is Iz gonna go tomorrow during the day? You have class, I have work. I can take her to the gallery but what about the day after that, and the day after that? Have you started looking for new places? It took forever for us to decide on Claudia, that kind of research takes hours.” 

“She doesn’t need another daycare.” Harry says quickly. “I don’t want her to go back to daycare for eight hours a day.” 

“Then what do you suppose we do, Haz?” Zayn struggles to keep his voice down. There’s an exasperated laugh building in the back of his throat. “What are you saying? Why would you do that and not tell me?” 

“I emailed my resignation today.” He can see the patience running thin on his husband, the way Zayn’s shoulders are hunching up and his jaw is tightening. 

Harry says the words in a rush, jumbled and indelicate. “It’s short notice and I’ll have a few ends to tie up, but after this class, I’m done at the university. So Iz can just stay here with me. It’s going to be wonderful. We’ll still go to playschool, but I was thinking maybe we could start her on dance? She’s always been a mover, and then we’re going to have so much time to do things. Like maybe on slow days we can stop by the gallery when you have lunch, picnic at Bushy Park and feed the squirrels and--” 

“What?” Zayn asks. 

Harry stops. “The squirrels? In Bushy Park? Iz has never gone to feed the squirrels now that she has the brain capacity to remember things, and I think--” 

“You quit your job?” Zayn echoes. He leans back against the counter, blown back and bracing against the granite. 

“Sort of? Not technically yet.” Harry gives a placating smile, the charming quirk of his lips that he uses when he doesn’t want someone to be mad at him. 

“You quit your job, and took Iz out of daycare, and you...you didn’t think this was something to discuss with me first?” 

Zayn is trying to keep his breathing steady, stop his heart rate from accelerating too quickly, but he can feel the flush spreading from his neck down to his shoulders and the ball of shock morphing into anger in his stomach. A weird medley of anger and disbelief, because Harry was his husband, and Isla was his daughter, and they were a family, but suddenly he had no grasp on what was going on inside that unit. “What the fuck, Haz?” 

It’s right on the emphasis of his swear word that Isla wakes. Most days, she wakes like Zayn, a gentle pull out of sleep, resting heavily on her blankets and slowly blinking her eyes open to the world, but today she wakes with a start at the expletive. 

She makes a sound, a cross between a whimper and a cry, and Harry goes to her quickly. He scoops her up, soothing her frustrated whimpers into his neck, and tries not to feel the dread build up in his stomach at the look Zayn is giving him across the flat, angry disbelief and irritation.

—-

They fight for the first time, for real, when Isla is put down for bed.

The rest of their evening had been strained, Zayn shutting himself up in the back balcony to chain smoke cigarettes and answer emails on his laptop, and Harry spent all of his time with Is. They listened to an audiobook as he made dinner. This week’s learning topic was the rainforest. 

Zayn put Iz down to bed, reading fifteen minutes of _Green Eggs and Ham_ before she was passed out, tucked comfortably between her black constellation sheets. 

Harry is in the kitchen, loading the dishwasher and wiping down the counters. He has jazz on behind him, Ella Fitzgerald crooning calmly in their ears, and Zayn knows that Harry only listens to jazz when he’s stressed out, likes to calm his heart rate with saxophones and rhythmic bass lines, but for once, Zayn doesn’t care. Harry’s jazz is a warning sign, usually, a message to be careful and tread lightly, but it’s been four hours and Zayn is still fucking pissed. 

Zayn stands in the entry way of the kitchen, right shoulder leaning against the wall, and watches Harry’s hands, oversized yellow rubber gloves scooping steamed kale off of a plate. 

“I can’t believe you didn’t tell me.” Zayn breaks the silence first. 

Harry finishes rinsing off the plate and sets it in the bottom rack. “I didn’t mean to not,” he says. “I haven’t been planning it, it just happened.” 

“You always do this, Harry.” Zayn shakes his head. “You look before you leap, you make decisions before thinking them through.” 

“I’ve thought this through.” Harry says sternly, because if nothing else, he has thought about this. He’s thought of nothing but this. 

Zayn scoffs. “You didn’t talk to me, so you didn’t really think it through, yeah? Because we’re supposed to make decisions like this together?” 

Harry rinses another plate, aiming for calm. “I understand that you’re upset, but I don’t think this has to be that big of a deal.” 

“You quit your job, babe!” Zayn has tried to keep his voice down, but he’s all but crying the words out. “You made huge life changing decisions regarding our family and you didn’t think to fucking consult me first? Left me standing in front of Claudia looking like a bellend who had no idea what was going on in his family? It was fucking embarrassing!” 

Harry winces. Embarrassment is one of those things that Zayn doesn’t wear well. Harry’d gotten used to it over the years, always the slightly outrageous, weird kid who loved space and wore hot air balloons on his shirts, and he’d gotten used to the flush in his cheeks when he was supposed to be embarrassed, when society meant to shame him, but Zayn never put himself out there like that. Zayn hated being embarrassed and Harry never wanted to make him feel like that. 

“I meant to text you.” Harry says meekly. 

“But you didn’t!” Zayn says fiercely. “You meant to text me, meant to talk to me, meant to tell me, but you didn’t, you just made decisions. Your job is one thing but Iz? You can’t just make decisions about her fucking carelessly.” 

Harry bristles at the accusation. “You know I’m never gonna be careless about Iz, Zayn.” 

“She’s got a routine. We’ve established a routine. She didn’t get transition time, time to say goodbye to her friends or Claudia.” 

“We can go back tomorrow if she wants to say goodbye.” 

“I can’t - I can’t believe you would make these decisions without me.” Zayn braces himself against the kitchen table. His knuckles are white from the pressure, from the ache in his chest at the implications of all of Harry’s decisions.

The thing is, Harry knows that he’s wrong. He can feel the guilt edging all around him, spreading like thick sludge from the top of his head down to the edges of his heels, but the look Zayn on his face, bewildered hurt and a faint trace of disgust, is just making him feel so much worse that he gets angry. 

“I can’t believe you think I would be so inconsiderate towards Isla.” He snaps back. “I’ve thought of nothing but her. She’s always carted from one place to another and I want to establish consistency in her life.” 

“Then you do it slowly.” Zayn shakes his head. “Talk to her, talk to me, pace things out. You always just jump into things and that’s not - that’s not how you do this.” 

“Don’t undermine me as a parent, Zayn. Trust me.” Harry finishes rinsing the plates in the sink and has to make a determined effort not to slam the dishwasher door. 

“How can I?” Zayn is on the verge of yelling, remembering at the last second that Iz is sleeping and his voice cracks with the effort of withholding the emotion. “You obviously don’t trust me because you didn’t factor me into your decisions. ‘S fucking selfish, Haz.” 

Harry would could consider himself a lot of things. A little off center sometimes, maybe a little strange, but he never would have considered selfish. The hurt pricks at him. His life mottos are chalk full of the sayings you find printed onto canvases in TK Maxx - _strive to be a better you, do the next best thing, enjoy the journey, life is what you make of it_. He’s always striving to do the next best thing, be the best version of himself he can be, and this decision was just another part of that. It wasn’t - it wasn’t about him. It was about Isla, and Zayn, and the squirrels in Bushy Park. 

“Don’t make this out like I’m the bad guy Zayn, the bad parent.” Harry tries to sound firm but really he’s pleading. “There were other ways to going around it, but it’s done now and it’s going to be a good thing.”

“Just because you think it would be a good thing doesn’t mean it is.” Zayn argues. “You don’t get a free pass now that you’ve already done it, that doesn’t excuse it.” 

“What else do you want me to say?” Harry asks. “I’m _sorry_.” 

“It’s not just about you being sorry.” Zayn’s shoulders droop in defeat and he shakes his head. “But you don’t fucking get that.” 

Zayn exits the room quickly, giving Harry one last prolonged look underneath his eyelashes before making his way up the stairs. Harry is left with a dishtowel wrung between hands, a storm of guilt and hurt and defensive anger whirring inside of him. 

He just - he meant to text him. He should’ve texted him. Goddamnit, he meant to text him.

—

In his second year of university, Harry took a class called “War” in which they, very understandable, studied and discussed and dissected wars. Of every battle and conquest and war ever discussed, Harry was always the most interested in the Cold War, because it was without much bloodshed, a tense stalemate of scheming and playing, and it was the one that he could understand the least. He was a vocal person and he wasn’t afraid to speak up about what hurt him. He warred with Gemma plenty of times, screaming and crying and writing nasty notes over toys and who got the sit in the front seat, and he warred with the occasional mean kid on the playground, but it was simple. You fought, and you yelled, and then you got over it. Harry didn’t understand the kind of tense undertones of war that could prolong years until he was in the middle of one.

Now, six years out of university and with a husband and a child and a mortgage payment and a better understanding of taxes, Harry was beginning to understand war. 

They went to bed tense, stiff backs and terse hands and inches between their bodies, curled up on their sides and facing opposite directions. Harry had whispered out a pleading, “Good night, Zayn”, but for all of Zayn’s uneven breathing, he didn’t respond. They showered separately and muttered half formed, bitten off sentences to get through the morning, and then Zayn left without more than a goodbye and a kiss on the cheek to Iz. He didn’t touch Harry. 

The silent treatment was killing him. Harry wanted to be yelled at, wanted them to hash it out and get it out on the table and get over it, so he could enjoy his time at home spent with Isla. Every part of his day was tainted with Zayn’s silence. He was composing messages before he had to catch himself, not knowing if he should give Zayn space or continue on with meaningless updates about his day. 

This was the best choice for their family, Harry had decided. This was the best choice for all of them, but most importantly, Isla. 

He’d gone about it wrong. Sometimes he just - he did things without thought, really, or did things with too much thought. He’d done nothing but go over the ideas in his head, the daydreams of days with Isla always at his side, running errands and going to playgroups and maybe surprising Zayn at lunch sometimes. He wanted that version of his life so bad, held onto the maybes and the somedays until he just eventually snapped. 

He knows he messed up. He knows that he hurt Zayn, made a decision that was so central and important to their family without him, and Harry, for all of his eagerness to confront problems and deal with him straight up, knows he needs to apologize but can’t. 

Because he just keeps thinking of that word - selfish. And that makes his pride burn into anger and suddenly he’s slamming doors and ignoring Zayn - not that Zayn probably even notices which makes Harry even more mad - and giving just as good as he gets.

This is a war, Harry’s got himself in. And he gets it now, in ways that reading from a history textbook or watching a documentary can never explain to him. It’s fucking exhausting.

—

It is three days of tense silence. Even their cat had picked up on the unease in the household, Magic slinking from room to room consistently looking mildly startled. He curled up on his ottoman and watched them all wearily. Isla was sleeping fitfully. Harry tried to engage with her as dutifully as he could, but every time he would have a good moment, he would then break away and remember that Zayn currently wasn’t speaking to him, and the mood was ruined. He’d come down this morning and saw Zayn and Is sitting at their usual places in the kitchen, telling stories as Zayn heated up the oatmeal, but Zayn quieted when Harry came down the stairs. He prepared Isla’s oatmeal in silence, before kissing her on the head and going to work.

Three days of silence and Harry is at his wit’s end. He’s worn out in a way that he only ever gets when things aren’t right with Zayn. Their fighting like this doesn’t happen often - Harry can think of two times, tops, when they’ve been out of sync for long periods of time. Once at uni, in the beginning, they’d had a drunken row and didn’t speak for a few days, and then once right after graduating, with the loom of adulthood, but that was different. They didn’t live together, didn’t have an established routine, didn’t have reminders of how far away they currently were from each other at every inch of their loft. 

Harry felt the ache of the distance everywhere, from Zayn’s mug in the cupboard to his chalk-covered jeans in the wash and it was killing him. He’s at his wits end. He can’t concentrate, is fielding work calls left and right from his department trying to square away the details of his leave, is trying to resettle Isla into a routine, and he feels like he doesn’t have his partner. Zayn is present when he’s home, scoops Isla right up and chats away, giving her her bath and putting her to sleep and feeding Magic and tidying up after himself, but the ease is gone. Harry feels like he doesn’t have anyone to confide in. He chats with Nick some, but doesn’t bring up the fight, because he knows that if he explains it he’s going to remember how wrong he was about everything and that’s going to kill him.

—-

When Zayn walks into their flat after work, he knows something’s off. Or more off really, because the last few days have been horrible but they’ve pretended for some sense of normalcy, for Iz’s sake. The entire place is quiet, no music or audiobook going in the background, and the air feels charged with something frantic. 

Zayn sheds his outter layers quickly, padding past the open space living and dining area to the slightly closed off kitchen. Harry is standing in the middle of the kitchen, a distressed furrow in his brows and a frenzied hand attempting to scrub something out of a shirt. He’s standing topless, the band of his jeans digging into the side of his hips, and from Zayn’s spot to his left he can see the tattoo of their names, Isla right on top of Zayn, stacked on Harry’s ribcage. Room to add more. 

“Isla’s taking a nap,” Harry says when he realizes Zayn’s standing there. He continues to furiously scrub. 

“At half four?” Zayn asks.

Harry refuses to look up. “She was fussy earlier. I know you don’t trust my parenting skills, but I--” His voice catches and he stops. He scrubs a little harder at the stain. He’s probably going to rub a hole through the fabric. 

“Haz--” Zayn’s voice catches too. They haven’t been talking and he has no idea what’s inside of Harry’s head right now, but he didn’t think it was this. 

“She needed a nap, she was tired. I was making a juice for when she woke up and I spilled fucking kale juice on my shirt and this is the shirt you got me last year and I--” 

“Hey, hey,” Zayn’s at his side in a few seconds, hands covering Harry’s to stop the frantic scrubbing. “Let it soak,” he says gently. “You’ve treated it, let it soak.” 

“I’ve ruined it.” Harry says. 

“Have not. I’ll call my mum later, see if she’s got a stain trick for it, but there’s nothing else you can do about it now.” 

Harry doesn’t reply and Zayn feels the tension and frustration rolling off of him. This was the closest they’d been in days, a few inches from Harry’s back to Zayn’s front, but it was all wrong. Harry wasn’t leaning into him, Zayn’s arms not bracketing against his shoulders while he peppered kisses along Harry’s shoulders. 

“How...how was your day?” Zayn asks slowly. 

“Shit.” Harry’s reply is short.

Zayn inhales sharply. “Do you want to talk about it?” 

Maybe if Harry were calmer, if he hadn’t had a disastrous day from the moment he woke up in the morning, alone and cold, he would’ve recognized the olive branch Zayn was offering. As it was, everything had gone wrong. 

Isla was fussy, throwing tantrums and crying and Harry didn’t know how to make it better; Magic had thrown up in the bathroom and Harry had stepped in it; and he’d tried to relax when he put Isla down for a nap, put on soothing music and make smoothies, but the calming nature sounds were pissing him off and he dropped a huge disgusting glob of green kale juice on his black floral silk shirt. He’d worn that shirt specifically this morning because Zayn liked it so much, always made a remark, but he hadn’t even gotten to wear it in his presence. 

“I’m a shit parent.” Harry twists out of Zayn’s arms, balling the shirt up into his hands and stalking to the little enclave where the washing machine is. “And a shit person and I can’t do anything right and everything’s gone fucking wrong and this wasn’t how things were supposed to go.” 

“You’re not a shit parent.” Zayn replies immediately. He feels a little helpless, seeing Harry stalk around like a big red cloud of anger. “Or a shit person.” 

“I’m selfish. I’m shit and I’m selfish but I - this wasn’t how it was supposed to go.” 

“What do you mean?” Zayn prompts. 

“This was supposed to be a better move for us. We were gonna be happier. But you won’t talk to me and Izzy won’t stop crying and Magic is sick and I can’t do this. You were right, I fucked up. I’ll call Claudia tomorrow and see if they’ll take us back, but I can’t—“ 

“Babe, stop.” Zayn steps forward and catches Harry’s wrists in his hands, stilling him. “Calm down. Breathe. It’s not - God, it’s not about that. It’s not about that at all, please just calm down for me.” 

Harry looks on the verge of breaking down completely into tears, hands shaking. He takes a few moments to breathe, counting the beats in his head. 

“This was supposed to be what was best.” He says. “But it’s all gone to shit.” 

“It’s not.” Zayn protests. “It’s not. Let’s just - we’ll take about it later, okay. Go take a shower, I’ll deal with Iz.” 

“I need to start dinner.” Harry shakes his head.

“I’ll put in a pizza.” 

“It’s Thursday.” Harry argues. “We save pizza for the weekends.” 

“We’ll make this Thursday an exception.” Zayn says softly. 

“But—“ 

“Harry.” Zayn cuts him off. “Please go take a shower.” 

Harry opens his mouth to argue again, something about whipping up a quick quinoa salad, but Zayn raises his eyebrows challengingly and Harry doesn’t have it in him anymore to fight. 

Even still, later, they can’t agree on anything. Isla is even fussier after her nap, squirming when either of them pick her up and refusing to eat her food. Zayn wants to put her to bed early, give her a warm bottle and hope that she’s just tired from growing, but Harry thinks they should keep her up a little, play something and tire her out so she sleeps through the night, and they bicker over what to do for a solid fifteen minutes, neither of them noticing Iz falling asleep on the floor until Magic moseys over to curl up next to her. 

“I’ll put her to bed.” Harry says quickly, and then he scoops up Isla delicately and disappears.

—-

 

Zayn is waiting in bed by the time Harry makes it up the stairs, sheets pooled around his torso as he props against the headboard, scrolling through the emails on his phone. Both of them are tense, shoulders taut and faces pinched, but Zayn’s trying to school the hardness on the corners of his eyes to something more nonchalant. Every part of him feels off after he and Harry have a fight, like his lungs are heavier and his nerves suddenly aren’t working the way they did before. He doesn’t want to say that he’s become accustomed to this feeling - he doesn’t let himself think about the previous fights, the bickering and the tense silence - but it’s one that his body reacts to normally now. 

Harry won’t meet his eyes when he makes it through the landing of the loft, face stoically held forward as he crosses the room to the dresser. It’s when he starts pulling for night clothes that Zayn panics a little. Things have been bad, yeah, but not - not destroyed. Harry doesn’t wear night clothes - he owns exactly one pair of pajamas and those were a gift. Harry sleeps naked, or partially so, usually stripping off his clothing and sliding against Zayn’s skin, tucking into the curve of Zayn’s chest to little spoon his way under his chin. And maybe they haven’t been sleeping like that as of late, but Zayn still finds comfort in Harry only being a few inches away. 

He wants to fix this. 

“Haz?” Zayn’s voice is hesitant and thick. 

Harry doesn’t answer, but Zayn can see the way his voice hits him. Harry’s shoulders drop a little, some of the tension easing out between the blades. He pulls out a t-shirt, a threadbare grey cotton vest that Zayn is pretty sure is his, and a pair of baggy gym shorts. He doesn’t go to change in the bathroom, but he keeps his back to Zayn as he peels off his jumper, and then Zayn is putting down his phone and getting out of bed. 

“Harry?” He tries again. “Babe, I--” 

“I think I’m going to sleep on the couch.” Harry’s voice is strained, thick and heavy and weighted with pent up emotion and yes, Zayn can hear the tears threatening there, and it’s enough of a sentence and a sound that Zayn feels like he’s been punched. Zayn stops his hand from where it was reaching for his husband’s arm. 

“Harry,” Zayn says, voice firm, because he just wants to look at him, see his face. Zayn can read everything about Harry from the expression on his face and he hates feeling like he’s going through this blind. “Haz, c’mon, look at me, we can talk--” 

“What are we doing, Zayn?” Harry turns to him and his expression is fierce, a resigned type of fury bubbling between the sad dips in his eyebrows. “If we can’t - if we don’t - what are we doing?” 

Zayn doesn’t want to follow Harry’s half formed sentences because they sound like beginnings of questions he doesn’t yet want to contemplate. 

“We’re working it out,” Zayn answers back quickly. “We’re new at this, we’re gonna make mistakes and fight and be pissed at each other but that’s how it works, like - it’s not always easy but it’s not a bad thing.” 

“We haven’t agreed on anything in days.” 

“Yes, we have. We agreed on pizza for dinner and that Magic needs an appointment at the vet--” 

“Those are little things. Agreeing on little things doesn’t count if we can’t agree how to properly parent our child--” 

“It’s a discussion! We’re discussing.” 

“We’re arguing.” Harry snaps. “I can’t, Zayn, I’m so exhausted I just - I can’t have this conversation right now. I’m going to go sleep on the couch and maybe tomorrow when I don’t feel like…” 

Whatever Harry feels like hangs in the space between them. 

“Take the bed.” Zayn offers. It’s more defeat than he wants to give, and he doesn’t want Harry to sleep anywhere but right besides him, curled up against his shoulders, cold toes digging into his shins, but he’s not going to exile his husband to the couch over this. “I’ll sleep on the couch.” 

“No,” Harry rejects immediately, and it’s another disagreement to add to the pile, Zayn thinks. “I just - I need some space.” 

“Your back, Haz, take the bed--” 

“I’ll be fine.” Harry says, because he is so stubborn he will make himself uncomfortable to win an argument, and then he grabs his pillow and exits the room before Zayn can continue to persist. 

Harry hasn’t slept in a different room from Isla and Zayn in three years, rotating between the two when Isla was a baby. At first she was in a little hideaway crib in the corner of the loft, and then when she was growing into her first baby bed they moved her downstairs, into what used to be an office and is now a comforting green room with plush baby toys and a bookshelf that expands across the entire back wall. Harry’s never spent time away from them, never slept without one of them in his immediate vicinity for over the past thousand days, but tonight, he needs space. 

Their couch is from IKEA and for all of the style - deep grey cushions and a fluffy faux fur throw draped artistically across the back - it’s not comfortable. It’s no Memoryfoam, Harry’s hips digging into the springs underneath, and he is tossing and turning and attempting to get comfortable before he is crying. 

Pillow squished awkwardly in the corner, throw blanket tucked under his chin, Harry sinks into the couch cushions and sobs in defeat. His cries are guttural and deep, body wracking sobs as the guilt and confusion and fear finally allow themselves to move from just his his head and his chest to everywhere. 

He’s not being quiet about it. He has to gasp to get his air in, snot already blocking up his nose and beginning to dribble down the side of his face, and it’s maybe Harry at his most unattractive state, but he can’t be bothered to care. His crying is grief, the fear and anger of the past few days, weeks, months, cumulating into a weeping session on the couch. He is thankful that Isla’s a heavy sleeper, knocking back quickly and out for hours, but he’s pretty sure Zayn can hear him. 

Zayn can hear him and there is a moment’s hesitancy on the loft landing, a tiny sliver of him who wonders if he should even go at all. If Harry wants his comfort. Harry, who cut the discussion off and vowed to sleep on the couch, but Zayn knows that even if Harry doesn’t want it, he deserves it, and Zayn takes his life roles quite seriously. He’s Isla’s Father and Harry’s Husband and Partner and right now his partner is grieving on the couch and Zayn’s not just going to let him sit there. 

He almost trips at the last stair of the landing, and wouldn’t that be hilarious, breaking his ankle would honestly be the cherry on top of their fantastic week, but he catches himself on the wall and steadies before making his way to the couch. 

“Hazza,” Zayn says, and then he is picking Harry up from his corner spot and scooping him into his arms, pulling Harry to his chest and bracketing his arms around his heaving body. “Baby, it’s okay. Harry--” 

Harry makes illegible sounds, incoherent weeps and sobs as he burrows into Zayn’s chest and sets up camp next to his name on Zayn’s collarbone. He knows that he shouldn't want this, that he’s mad at Zayn and frustrated by the entire situation, but Zayn feels like home and right now Harry just wants to feel like everything is the same and not crumbling beneath him. 

The fighting had been getting bad, Zayn knows. He shouldn’t have yelled at Harry the way he did after Harry pulled Isla out of daycare permanently, but Zayn was confused and felt a fool in front of the woman who worked there, and that confusion and embarrassment led to anger that he took out on someone who only kind of deserved it. Harry should have talked to him first. It shouldn’t been a decision they made together, sitting down and fleshing out the logistics and making the decision in a very mature manner, but Harry didn’t always think before he did things. 

Zayn used to think he loved that about Harry - the spontaneity, the way that Harry just did before he thought, no time for the anxieties that always plagued Zayn. Harry was the flash of excitement to Zayn’s calm steadiness, the right balance, and Zayn always thought he could handle it. And maybe he could, when Harry was making these flash decisions about himself and only sometimes Zayn, but not with Isla. Everything was different with Isla. They had to be more careful.

So Zayn yelled, and then Harry yelled, and they’d been living in a tense Cold War for the past four days, and Zayn is sick of it. 

“I know.” Zayn says against the top of Harry’s head, pressing a kiss to his temple while clutching him tighter. “It’s okay, I know, get it out.” 

Harry feels like he doesn’t deserve Zayn’s comfort. He continues to sob into his neck. 

“We’re gonna figure it out, Hazza. You and me and Izzy - we’re gonna figure it out, okay? Breathe for me, baby. Just breathe.” 

It takes twenty minutes for Harry to calm down, his sobs transitioning to little pained hiccups before he just collapsed against Zayn, head aching in defeat as the snot dried along his upper lip. Zayn held him tightly, instructing him to breathe and pressing kiss after kiss to every little patch of skin, and when Harry finally calmed down he let Zayn lead him back upstairs to the loft, where they tucked under the covers.

—

Harry and Zayn work in routines. If you would’ve asked Zayn five years ago if his entire day was going to be regimented and revolve around a three-year-old, he would’ve raised his eyebrows at you and then turned and left to go have a smoke, but this is the way things work now and he’s truly not displeased about it. Zayn has to leave the house earlier than Harry for work, to open up the gallery, so he’s the first one out of bed and he’s the one who gets up with Izzy in the morning.

Zayn, once someone who was never persuaded out of bed before eleven, now loves those mornings, when the house is still quiet and the sun is gently rising over the horizon and his babygirl is sitting and making faces at him as Zayn prepares breakfast. 

His mornings are methodic. Get up, pee, check on Iz. Prepare a bottle, feed Magic, change and dress Iz, get her set up with some Cheerios while he changes before he goes and starts on breakfast.

Zayn’s not usually the biggest talker, but mornings are for stories. Harry painted a slab of wall with chalk paint the first month they were in the loft, a perfect frame of rectangle, and Zayn and Izzy wait for Harry to get up by telling stories. Most of her drawings are just colored scribbles and lines, but Zayn always fills them in. Sometimes they are in the middle of an adventure when Harry stumbles down - traveling through rivers and mountains or riding on dinosaurs or soaring through space - and by the time Harry makes it down the stairs, bleary-eyed and ready for a kiss and a cup of tea, Izzy is at the pinnacle of her excitement. “Da! Da!” she squeals as Harry walks in the room, pointing at the board and then mimicking the “zoooooooom - zooooom” sounds Zayn is making.

Harry loves that his day starts off with his daughter excitedly yelling his name, all baby teeth smiles as she bounces in her high chair. 

The morning after Harry sobbed on the couch, he woke up early. The bed was cold and empty next to him, and there was a moment where his heart seized in panic - he’s been having anxiety dreams where Zayn leaves him for the past week, where he wakes up in the middle of the night to find Izzy and Zayn and Magic gone, loft empty of pictures or their belongings, and lately the dreams have been extending to the first few moments after Harry wakes up. 

His hands grip the sheets and his ears strain to hear movement, but he’s only awake for a few moments before he hears the tell-tale sound of Izzy’s “zooooooooom”. 

He is nervous walking down the stairs, but when he makes it to the bottom, both Zayn and Izzy look over at him and smile. This morning they are discovering Jupiter, Zayn coloring the huge gas giant in strips of orange and blue, and Izzy is pretending to be a spaceship. Of all of their adventures, Izzy loves space the most, and Harry is already preparing to teach her all about space. He wants his kid to grow up happy and be whatever she wants, but he also kind of wants his kid to be an astronaut too. 

“Good morning,” Harry greets, eyes trained only on Izzy as he presses a kiss to the top of her head. “Where are we today?” 

“Somewhere around Jupiter.” Zayn replies. “We’re moving along in the Solar System.” 

“Is that so, Izzy?” Harry asks, looking down at the toddler expectantly. She makes an excited noise at him. “Is that you?” Harry pokes at the spaceship drawn on the board - it looks surprisingly small for something that’s supposed to make it thousands of lightyears away from Earth, but Harry allows for scientific mishap when toddlers are involved. “Fighting your way through all of that interstellar medium to make it to Jupiter? Is that where you’re gonna move to next?” 

“Da!” She agrees. “Da! Da!” 

Harry is Dada and Zayn is Papa and Harry is still gloating over the fact that she can clearly pronounce “Da” first. 

“Mmm, all that space food.” Harry continues. “Tube peas and meat and mash! Should we start preparing you now? Blend your Cheerios up into little smoothies?” 

“I think she might enjoy solids while she’s still down here on Earth.” Zayn interjects.

“You gotta do what you gotta do to survive in space.” Harry shrugs nonchalantly, but he still feels the tension in his chest and in the room. He knows that he and Zayn need to have a proper sit down conversation, not just a few exchanged terse words and yelling, but the thought of having to come to terms with his own guilt and wrongdoings makes Harry’s stomach twist. 

Izzy is their buffer for now. 

“I think she’s about twenty five years of schooling away from space.” Zayn hums right back, before scooping Izzy up out of her highchair and resting her on his hip. 

“I called into work today.” Zayn says while Harry crosses to the counter, where his mug is already down and the kettle on.

Harry takes a deep breath and nods. “That’s - yeah, good idea.” 

Zayn continues. “And I called Gemma this morning.” 

Harry’s face darkens with suspicion. His fingers fiddle with his tea bag, dropping it into his mug before reaching for the kettle handle. “Why?” 

“To see if she would be willing to watch Iz for a few hours. She’s gonna swing by at around ten and they’re gonna go on a date.” 

“You don’t - you don’t have to pawn Iz off on Gem, Zayn.” Harry’s reservations are back up. “Gemma’s got work and--” 

“She’s excited to do, Haz. They’re gonna go to a museum and they’re gonna swing by Lou’s and have lunch with Lux. Iz needs some estrogen in her life.” 

“I just don’t want Gemma to think--” Harry starts and Zayn almost rolls his eyes, because half of the battle with Harry is what other people think. 

“She doesn’t think anything but that we need a few hours break, and we do. Please don’t fight me on this.” 

Harry opens his mouth and his instinct is to keep fighting, to bicker until he gets his way, but he sees the steely resolve in Zayn’s eyes and he’s so, so sick of fighting, so he lets it drop. 

“Yeah, okay,” he says, inhaling deeply, looking from Zayn’s inquisitive eyes to the darkening color of his steeping tea. “Breakfast?” 

Harry makes French toast, turning on some music and humming along as Zayn and Izzy continue their journey through space. He focuses on the meal so he’s not correcting most of Zayn’s terminology - the gas and dust is actually the Interstellar Medium and that’s not a comet, they’re not nearly far enough out for that, and you wouldn’t actually be dodging asteroids every five seconds because they aren’t in the belt - and then when he’s done, he slices up Izzy’s French toast into triangles and squares and laughs as she dribbles syrup all over her chin. 

They are suspended in a moment of tranquility when Gemma rings on the buzzer. Harry felt good again, the knot in his chest loosening up as Zayn kept laughing and Izzy stared up at both of them adoringly, and this was how Harry wanted every moment to be but he wasn’t sure how exactly to get it there. Harry left Zayn and Iz in the kitchen to let Gemma inside. 

She fixes him with an inquisitive look when he opens the door. 

“Nothing’s wrong.” He says immediately, because he knows what she’s asking - what’d you do, Harry? How’d you manage to fuck it up this time? - and he’s not going to give her that satisfaction. 

Even if he did fuck it up, she doesn’t need to gloat. 

“Isn’t Zayn supposed to be at work?” She asks. “Aren’t you supposed to be at work?” 

“I don’t go in until eleven,” Harry answers immediately, and then blanches because, well, he doesn’t go in at eleven anymore. 

Gemma just raises her eyebrows, but then part of her face softens as she takes in the rumbled look on Harry’s face. 

“You’ll work through it, H,” she says reassuringly, pressing a kiss to the side of his face and squeezing his shoulder before making her way into the kitchen. Harry hears Izzy’s excited squeal, Zayn’s quiet and calm, “Thanks for showing up last minute,” and Harry feels a headache coming on all over again. 

It only takes twenty minutes for Gemma to finally get herself ushered out of the house, Izzy securely strapped into her carseat and looking sleepy after her morning meal. Harry’s double checked everything in the diaper bag twice, making sure there were enough snacks and bibs and an extra change of clothes because sometimes Iz makes a mess, she’s just like Harry that way, and Harry was still puttering about, nervous hands fluttering over the straps of his daughter’s carseat before Zayn finally waved Gemma away. 

With Izzy and Gemma gone, the front door closes behind them, and the tension is back. Zayn still seems mostly relaxed, shoulders not up around his ears while he clears the plates and starts loading up the dishwasher. Harry feels useless, standing in the kitchen half in motion, but he’s not sure what he should do. Zayn’s got a speedy efficiency when cleaning and by the time Harry thinks that maybe he should join in somehow, maybe towel dry the pan, Zayn’s shutting the dishwasher closed and turning to look at Harry. He lounges against the counter, opens his mouth to say something, and then shuts it. 

It is watching Zayn’s mouth move, tongue reach out to flicker along his lower lip in thought, that Harry realizes that he’s not kissed him in ages. Almost five days. Their mornings used to start off with shared snogs against the cabinets, maybe even a quick blowjob in the shower on mornings where Harry woke up extra early, but lately it had been stewed silence and tension in the morning, Zayn leaving for work only minutes after Harry made it into the kitchen. 

Harry misses Zayn’s mouth. 

He crosses to kiss him quickly, registering the slightly surprised look on Zayn’s face for only a second before Harry is pressing their lips together, hands reaching up to tug at the hair across Zayn’s neck and pull them closer. Like most kisses, this is melting. Zayn’s always been the louder one between the two, his satisfied groan rumbling between their lips, and then their mouths are greedy, lips moving and tongues pressing and it’s just so, so, so good. Harry feels relief. 

Maybe they tension’s not all anger. Maybe they’re just sexually frustrated. 

His hands anchor on both sides of Zayn’s neck, tilting his jaw for the best angle, and the kiss deepens to a desperate searching, Zayn’s fingers fisted in the sides of Harry’s shirt. His tongue licks at Harry’s, lips slotting together hungrily, and they kiss like that for several desperate, long minutes. Zayn’s hands slide up underneath Harry’s shirt, resting on his ribs. Harry’s fingernails scratch at Zayn’s scalp. 

When Harry pulls away, hands shaky and breathing labored, Zayn actually lets out a whine. 

“Missed you,” Harry breathes against Zayn’s lips. 

Zayn ducks forward to steal another kiss. “So much.” 

“Touch me.” Harry says, slotting his thigh between Zayn’s knees. 

“Okay.” Zayn agrees, and then he does. 

His hands strip Harry of his t-shirt and shorts, getting his kit off right there in the middle of the kitchen, Harry shivering against the tile and the marble, and Zayn presses biting kisses along his neck and collarbone and chest, leading the path straight down until Zayn’s dropping to his knees and taking Harry into his mouth. Harry has one hand gripping the counter, flesh digging into the sharp underside, and the other twisted so perfectly into Zayn’s hair. 

The slight ache in Zayn’s jaw is immediately familiar, the stress of the muscle as he opens his mouth wider and keeps one hand wrapped around Harry’s thigh for leverage. This is familiar and relief and still always so, so good. Harry’s shoulders are drooping, hissing out in pleasure as Zayn bobs and licks and sucks, and it’s been just long enough that Harry is coming quickly, no tricks necessary, and Zayn feels the twitch in his mouth just a moment before Harry is moaning and pulling at Zayn’s hair and coming down his throat. Zayn continues to bob against him, just until Harry is sensitive and keening, and then he pulls off and presses a kiss to the inside of Harry’s thigh. 

Harry looks entirely too fucked out for a hasty blowjob in the middle of the kitchen, eyes still lulling as Zayn pulls himself up to standing. Harry’s pulling Zayn to him lazily, hand already ducking underneath the band of his trackies, but it only takes a few moments for Harry to realize that Zayn’s barely even got a semi. 

“Do you want--?” Harry starts, motioning downwards, but Zayn’s hand is closing around Harry’s wrist and pulling it away with a little shake of his head. 

“Not right now.” Zayn says. “I’m just - not there right now.” 

Harry tries not to let that majorly hit his ego, but it does, and the hurt must show on his face because Zayn is instantly nudging his nose against his husband’s chin and murmuring softly. “Not you.” Zayn kisses against his jawline. “All me. Now get your clothes back on while I brush my teeth and we talk.” 

When they meet back in the kitchen, Harry is sitting at the dining room table, clothes back on as he stares down into his cup of tea, and Zayn’s mouth is minty and he’s already aching for a cigarette. He settles for the cup of coffee Harry made him. 

“You really don’t—?” The words suspend in the air, Harry shifting uncomfortably as his eyes glance down at Zayn’s non-erection. Usually there’s nothing Harry loves more than a good morning serving of sweatpant dick, but Zayn’s is very obviously there but very obviously not hard. 

“Not right now.” Zayn repeats, voice reassuring. “You know how I get when I’m stressed, I just...can’t.” 

There’d been a time right after they graduated uni, Zayn applying for job after job, that he was so stressed he couldn’t get hard for weeks. Where Harry was all for sexual release in times of stress, Zayn was the opposite. It had been weeks of blowjobs and handies and licking Harry out, Zayn’s jaw straining as he tried to atone for his lack of sexual appetite.

Harry feels another wave of guilt. He was literally making it impossible for his partner - the man he’d committed to sucking off and fucking for the rest of his life - to feel arousal. 

Harry nods and continues contemplating his cup of tea, taking a small sip. This was a conversation that he didn’t know how to broach. 

Usually, Harry starts the conversations. He’s very good at articulating his feelings, flatly telling Zayn if he was hurt or what was bothering him or what he thought they needed to work on, but that only worked when Harry felt like he was in the right. He fucked up here, and he knows that he needs to apologize, but he doesn’t even know where to start.

After a few beats of silence, Zayn starts. “When did you start thinking about quitting your job?”

“The second I went back,” Harry answers quickly and honestly. 

Zayn blinks, startled. “Like - two years ago?” 

They both took a few months off when they first got Iz, negotiating paternity leave and both being lucky enough to have employers who would accommodate. The first few months with Isla were amazing and terrifying. Zayn barely remembers sleeping, which was unusual in all sorts for him, because he was so afraid something would happen to either Harry or Isla. He would get up in the middle of the night to check to make sure she was breathing, standing over her crib and squinting at the way her little ribcage rose and fell in the darkness. At the end of those beginning months, though, Zayn was itching to go back to work. He missed the people, the art, the time alone in the morning. He savored every moment he spent with Harry and Iz, but he also liked the feeling of going out in the world, doing what he was passionate about, and knowing that he was providing for his family.

He always assumed Harry was the same. Harry loved space - Harry had loved space from the moment Zayn met him, drunkenly slurring, “Common misconception: black holes don’t swallow. Actual fact: I do.” into Zayn’s ear to get him laughing, and Zayn always assumed that that love would never go away. He just never figured that that love would be superseded by something greater. 

Harry nods. “Leaving that first day was so hard. I thought it would get easier, but it never has.” 

“Why didn’t you say something?” Zayn asks, feeling guilty for not noticing. “Tell me?” 

Harry shifts uncomfortably, braving up to look at the open, understanding, but also confused expression on Zayn’s face. “You love your job. You’re so happy to go to work everyday. Things are great with the shop but I didn’t want to add in the financial strain. We’ve finally started a savings account and things are good I just didn’t want to...to ruin all of that.” 

“Fuck money though.” Zayn breathes, rolling his eyes. “Like - you didn’t tell me because of the money? Since when are we those people, Haz? Like that’s not what should matter first.” 

“We’re realistic, Zayn. Finances are important and I just… we’ve been doing so well and--”

Zayn huffs. “So you just kept it bottled up until you suddenly quit your job?” 

“Does it make it any better knowing that it was an impulse decision?” Harry asks sheepishly

Mildly, Zayn thinks, but he doesn't say that. “This has been building for two years?” He asks instead.

Harry nods slowly, twisting his fingers around his mug of tea. He tucks his knees up on the chair with him. “It was just - an afterthought, in the beginning. Like, maybe one day, I could take some time off, cut back and do more with Iz. I wasn’t even seriously contemplating it, until…” 

“Until what?” Zayn prompts. 

Harry inhales deeply, already feeling guilty and stupid for it, but Zayn asked and they’re trying to be honest with each other now. “Someone said something at work. It was offhand, but then I - I started feeling like I was spending more time in the classroom than I was with my own family and I…I don’t want to be that person. I don’t want to miss out.” 

“Your career isn’t missing out, Haz—“ Zayn starts. 

“Look, it’s like - you like getting up every morning and going to work. You look forward to that, but for me it’s like…I look forward to when I can come home and be with you and Iz. I hate leaving. I like my job, but I don’t love it, not the way that I love being with Iz and raising her. Space isn’t leaving. But Iz isn’t gonna be this young forever.” 

Zayn inhales deeply, but stays silent for a few long moments. His fingers tighten around his coffee mug, the warmth seeping through his palms as he files and processes everything Harry has just said. 

“I just want you to be happy,” Zayn finally says, more of an exhale than a sentence, and both of their shoulders stop hunching so much. 

Harry opens his mouth, to say something but the thought isn't fully formed. Zayn shakes his head at him and continues talking. “I don’t ever want to feel like how I felt that day at Iz’s school again. Confused and embarrassed and like…like I don’t even know what’s going on with my own family. People try to shit on us enough at it is and for a second I felt it. I wondered, are we fit to be raising a child? If we can’t even communicate, how are we supposed to be a team? I don’t want to feel like I’m constantly fighting with you.” 

“I know.” Harry agrees instantly, leaning forward. “It was awful and such shit and I’m - I’m so sorry, I just - it all bubbled up, and then I snapped, and I was withdrawing Iz before anything else and I know that I should’ve talked to you, that I shouldn’t have gotten so defensive, but I just. I don’t know. I felt guilty, it was too big of a decision to make on my own, and I was scared.” 

“You shouldn’t have made the decision on your own. You shouldn’t have done all of that without talking to me first.” Zayn reiterates his point from their first argument, muddled from the anger from all of those days ago. 

“I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.” Harry repeats, and there’s so much sincerity in his voice it almost aches. 

“And I - I shouldn’t have said those things to you.” Zayn continues, and he reaches forward finally and takes Harry’s hand from his mug, lacing their fingers. “I was angry and hurt. You’re a great dad. You’re the best dad. There’s no one else I would rather be doing this with.” 

“This is hard.” Harry admits freely. 

“We fuck up.” Zayn agrees. 

“I don’t want to be away from Isla all day.” Harrys says next. “She has a few years before she’s be in school all day and I don’t want to loose those.” 

“Okay.” Zayn nods. “Okay. You just have to tell me that. We can figure out Iz’s stuff. I still think she needs either playgroup or something else, something social, but no daycare. If you don’t want to work, then you won’t work.” 

Harry blows another frustrated noise through his mouth, squeezing Zayn’s fingers. “The idea of not working makes me feel worthless.” 

“Why?” Zayn asks, and he’s smoldering his eyebrows inquisitively at Harry in the way he only looks when he wants Harry to talk through a problem himself. 

“Because I won’t be making any money? Because you have to go out every day while I get to stay home and have fun with Iz?” 

Zayn rubs his thumb comfortingly across the back of Harry’s hand. “We both know that raising a child isn’t all fun all the time. It’s a lot of work. Do you think that you should go out and work because it’s what you want to do or because you feel like that’s what’s expected of you? The gallery is doing great. We’ve got savings. We’ll have to be smart about it but we can afford this.” 

“I don’t want you to feel like I’m not pulling my weight.” Harry finally admits, and Zayn’s eyes soften and he gets out of his chair quickly, rounding the table. Both of his hands snake down to Harry’s shoulders, stomach pressing comfortingly against Harry’s neck as he pulls him back. Zayn’s hands thread through his husbands hair, nails relaxingly scratching against his scalp. 

“I’m never gonna think that.” Zayn says.

“You can’t predict that, I—“ 

“Stop, Haz. You’re working yourself up over what potentially may or may not happen.” 

Harry reaches one hand up to circle around Zayn’s wrist, encouraging Zayn to keep touching him. The contact feels incredible. 

“I just don’t want to miss anything.” Harry says gently. 

“With Iz?” 

“With Iz or with you, like. I don’t wanna get reports on her everyday from someone else. I want to know if she’s got a stuffy nose or has said a new word. I want to be there for all of it.” 

“Okay.” Zayn says easily. “Okay, then that’s what we’ll do.” 

“That’s it?” 

“All I ever want is for you and Iz to be happy.” Zayn leans down to press a kiss to the top of Harry’s head. “I just want to be included in those decisions, like. That’s all.” 

“I love you so much,” Harry turns to press a kiss to the inside of Zayn’s wrist. “So, so, so much.” 

“I love you even more.” Zayn’s lips move from Harry’s forehead to jaw. “Can we never do this again? This week has been shit.” 

“Agreed.” Harry pulls Zayn’s face down level with his. “I’m sorry again,” he says. “And I love you and trust you and will never make a decision again without talking to you. Keep your phone on at all hours of the day because the next time I’m at Asda picking up groceries you’re going to be consulted on everything down to the brand of cracker.”

“I look forward to it.” Zayn laughs. “Now long do you think we have until Gemma’s exhausted from Iz?” 

“Realistically probably another hour, but we could stretch that. Why?” 

“Want you to take me to bed.” Zayn nuzzles his nose against the pulse of Harry’s jaw. “The only good thing about fighting is make up sex.” 

“Well then,” Harry stands up, grinning, happily grazing his palm against the front of Zayn’s trackies, and he’s not completely hard yet, Harry knows that it’s gonna take a little work to rid the last bit of stress from his system, but it’s a challenge he’ll accept. “Let’s go do that.”

—-

Gemma meets them at Bushy Park. They stopped at a bakery on their way, the girl behind the counter giving Zayn a strange look when he asked for their stalest loaf of bread, and they find Gemma at a bench, Izzy bouncing in her lap.

The weather’s not the greatest, the sun only burning off a little bit of the perpetual grey of the London sky, but it’s warm enough out that there are little groups of people lying out on the grass and couples walking their dogs. 

Harry and Zayn walk together, hands clasped together tightly, and Harry will squeeze Zayn’s hand periodically, the happiness and relief he feels having to manifest in some physical form. 

Gemma looks pleased when they approach. “Worked it out then?” She asks. 

Zayn nods. “How was your girl’s date?” 

“Perfect, wasn’t it Iz?” Gemma looks down at Isla for confirmation. The toddler smiles. “We’re a bit knackered, but this one’s been after the squirrels since we got here.” 

“C’mon, then, Isla-baby,” Harry picks up his daughter and rests her gently on his hip. He presses a kiss to her forehead before he reconnects his hand with Zayn’s. “Papa here has some crumbly bread and we’ve got some time, so let’s go feed some squirrels.” 

“I’ll meet you in a few,” Zayn says, and then he leans over to press a long kiss to Isla’s head before kissing Harry, a slow, gentle meeting of lips that’s probably a bit too long to be appropriate for the park. He passes him the paper bag of bread. “Gonna have a quick chat with Gem.” 

“Alright.” Harry beams at him. “Now, Miss Izzy, there’s a proper technique to feeding a squirrel, you know, and we’ve got to do this right…” 

Gemma looks up at Zayn from her seat on the bench as Harry and Iz disappear further down the pathway. “Alright?” She asks. 

“Gonna be.” Zayn takes the seat next to her. “Thank you for taking Iz for a bit. We needed the time.” 

“Alright?” She asks again, and Zayn appreciates that she’s not outwardly prying even though she obviously wants information. He’s a bit surprised Harry hasn’t told her, to be honest, but then again, Harry’s always had a hard time admitting when he’s wrong to people, especially when he already knows it. 

“Had a bit of a rough patch, but things are better now.” Zayn says. “Harry’s decided to leave teaching for a bit.” 

“Finally done it, has he?” Gemma doesn’t look the least bit surprised. “He’s wanted to stay home ever since you both got Iz.” 

“Was it that obvious?” Zayn asks, wondering how he never noticed. 

“Sometimes.” Gemma says. “It’s not like he doesn’t like his job, but you know he’s happiest when he’s around you and Iz. He’s always loved taking care of people and you two are his most important people.” 

“Yeah.” Zayn nods. He can see that so clearly. “You’re right.” 

“Usually am.” Gemma gives him a grin. “Guess I’ll be off then. There’s a nap in my future.” 

“Thanks, Gem.” Zayn leans across the bench to give her a hug. “Text me when you’ve made it home.” 

“Will do.” Gemma says. “And you know I’ll take Iz off your hands anytime, especially if you and Harry need some alone time. It’s not a problem.” 

“I’ll remember that.” He kisses her forehead. “Get home safe.” 

Zayn finds Harry and Iz a few minutes later, sitting on the ground, half a loaf of bread left between them. Zayn plops down on the ground next to Harry, snaking an arm around Harry’s waist to pull him into him. Harry’s in the middle of some monologue about nature, something to do with squirrels and trash and littering that Zayn’s not paying attention to and Izzy’s not understanding, but no one seems the least bit bothered. Zayn tucks his head into Harry’s shoulder, presses a kiss to his throat, and smiles as his daughter attempts to crawl her way into his lap. 

“Love you.” Zayn whispers against Harry’s shoulder. “Love you both so much.” 

Harry stops in his monologue briefly. He takes in Zayn, draped across him, and Izzy, now resting comfortably in Zayn’s lap, staring at the nature around them, and he feels something inside of him settle again. 

“Love you more.” Harry says back, and then he leans forward and kisses Zayn right there in Bushy Park, only the squirrels as their audience.


End file.
